by Maureen Lee
“Have you had anything to eat this weekend?” she asked, suddenly aware that the table was set as she’d left it last Friday.
“No, but I’ve had plenty to drink.”
“Oh, Nick!” His back was to her. She noticed for the first time the plaster protruding out of his left shirt-cuff. She’d forgotten about his broken wrist. The white plaster contrasted sharply with his slender sunburnt hand. She shivered, remembering the sheer heaven to which those hands had sent her in the past. She no longer felt dispassionate. She wanted him! Her insides throbbed with longing. There was nothing in the world she desired more than for Nick to make love to her at that moment. If they could, if only they could, everything would be all right again. Her hand reached out to touch the little cluster of tight curls at the nape of his lean neck.
“Nick,” she whispered, just as he stood up, out of her reach,’I love you.”
His face softened as he faced her and she felt a flicker of hope in her heart. “And I love you, Eileen.” Perhaps he sensed her desire, perhaps he felt it too. He said, “Do you want us to make love?” When she nodded breathlessly, he went on, “So do I. Oh, it was great between us, wasn’t it?
Absolute magic, but,” his face changed, “it wouldn’t work.
You see, I can never trust you again, my darling. I would be forever expecting you to let me down.”
She realised it was all over. “In that case,” she said tiredly, “we’d best say goodbye, Though don’t forget, Nick, it was you who left me in the first place. You didn’t have to join up. You could have stayed in your job for the duration of the war. It’s a miracle you’re still alive and able to climb on your high horse.”
His face flushed. “That’s a different thing altogether. I had a duty to fight for my country. I couldn’t have lived with myself otherwise.”
“And I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d walked out on Francis, but it seems you’re the only person allowed to have principles.”
“That’s not true, Eileen.”
“I think it is.” She went towards the door. “You’re not going to stay here by yourself over the next fortnight?”
Despite everything, she couldn’t help but be concerned.
“I’m catching the midnight train to London. I shall stay with friends till my leave’s up. I would have gone before, but decided to wait and see if you’d come.”
“So you could tell me where to get off?”
He had the grace to look ashamed. “I . . . It just makes me feel a little better knowing I haven’t been entirely rejected.”
“You never were rejected. I was in a right ould state when they brought Francis home and I thought I was doing what was best for you. Here’s your key.” She threw the key down on the telephone table in the hall.
“No!” He picked up the key and handed it back. “Keep it.
I’ll never return to the cottage.” He glanced upstairs. “It holds too many memories. I couldn’t bear to live here without you and Tony. But the raids are getting worse. I’d like you and your family to use it.” His lips twisted wryly.
“You can even bring Francis if you want.”
“As if I would!” she said bitterly. Nevertheless, she put the key in the pocket of her overalls and opened the door.
“Tara, Nick.”
“Goodbye, my darling girl. Give Tony my fondest love.”
From the tone of his voice she had a feeling that he’d cry when she left. He’d cried before because he was an emotional man, perhaps too much so. Someone less sensitive mightn’t have taken things so much to heart, but then that someone wouldn’t have been Nick and she wouldn’t have loved him half as much.
“I will,” she replied with a coolness anything but felt.
She was already working on her lathe when the girls came wandering in from the canteen. They looked rather subdued.
“Eh, Eileen. Have you heard the news?” asked Lil.
“No,” she snapped, uninterested.
“An entire bomb disposal team were blown up in Liverpool this morning working on this bomb. What sort was it, girls?”
“Delayed action,” said Pauline.
“Jaysus!” Eileen gasped.
“Not only that, you know Myra from the assembly shop? She lost her mam last night in the raid on Norris Green.”
Later on the girls began to sing, but that night they sang only sad songs, The Old Lamplighter and Among My Souvenirs. How many more sad songs would they sing, thought Eileen, close to tears, before the damn war was over and the world returned to normal? Not that things would ever be normal again for her. Nick had gone, that lovely part of her life had ended. When the time came to leave Francis, she and Tony would have to strike out on their own, she thought listlessly. She did her best to push Nick to the back of her mind and concentrate on work, because it seemed selfish to be preoccupied with her own affairs when people were dying everywhere. At least Nick was alive.
It seemed only appropriate that the klaxon should blare out a warning that a raid had started just after eight o’clock. They trooped down to the shelter, but the raid wasn’t a long one. The women returned to the workshop, and for the last hour at Dunnings, no-one sang at all.
When Eileen got home, she found Francis had a visitor.
George Ransome lived across the street and was known as the “Pearl Street Playboy”. He was a dashing bachelor of about fifty with a pencil-thin moustache, who wore loud pinstripe suits and two-tone shoes, and spent most of his time in the company of various young ladies whose appearance was as flashy as his own. George’s parties were frequent and very rowdy, with music and shrill screams coming from Number 17 till well past midnight.
When people complained, he would merely wink and say jovially, “Well, next time I have a party, you’re welcome to come.” Before the war, he’d worked for Littlewoods Pools, but when the premises were taken over by the postal censorship service, George had been kept on, his sharp intelligence, not normally apparent to his friends, a useful tool in a vital job. George, conscious of his important contribution towards the war effort, had started to acquire an air of gravitas and the parties and the young ladies were becoming less and less frequent, particularly since he’d joined the ARP. Despite his bad reputation, Eileen quite liked him. Indeed, she secretly found him rather attractive in a seedy sort of way, and although George would have been outraged if he’d known, she also thought his way of life more than a little pathetic.
“Hallo, George.” She was pleased to see him, though would have been pleased to see anyone rather than be alone with Francis.
“Lo there, kid.” He jerked his head and made a clicking noise. “I’ve just been keeping the war hero company till you came home.”
“How’s your day been, princess?” Francis asked. He looked like a pantomime pirate. The bandage had been removed from his eye and there was a black patch in its place. The left side of his face was the ugly yellow of fading bruises, but for all that, he looked remarkably fit. He was wearing the trousers of his next-to-best suit and a knitted pullover over a collarless blue shirt.
“Fine,” she said, though the day had been anything but.
“What did they have to say at the hospital?”
Francis said, almost proudly, “They’re going to take me ould eye out and put a glass one in its place. According to the doctor, no-one will be able to tell it isn’t real.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s the bloody gear,” George said as he lit a cigarette! from the one he’d just finished. He was a chain-smoker and rarely seen without a fag hanging from his bottom lip.
“It’ll be dead good having you back in Pearl Street again, Francis. It hasn’t seemed the same since you left. Eileen’s missed you something rotten, haven’t you, girl? Everyone could tell.”
Eileen said quickly, “I think I’ll just pop upstairs a mo and see if our Tony’s all right.”
Tony was fast asleep, one hand under the pillow clutching the tin gun he took to bed each
night. She kissed him gently on the cheek and whispered, “Hallo, son,” but he didn’t stir.
George was just about to leave when she went down.
“Tara, Eileen.” He threw a pretend punch at Francis. “See you, mate. Perhaps you’ll feel up to a bevvy at the King’s Arms by tomorrer night. Oh, by the way, I’ve arranged for a stirrup pump demonstration on Saturday afternoon. I think we should organise a Pearl Street fire-fighting squad between us.”
Eileen promised she would be there, as she had no idea what to do with the stirrup pump the government had issued should the occasion arise to use it. She saw George out and when she returned, Francis was in the back kitchen.
“I boiled the kettle for some cocoa earlier on. Would you like a bit of toast for your supper?”
“No, ta, I’m not hungry, but I’d love some cocoa.” She remembered she’d eaten nothing since breakfast, but the thought of food made her feel sick.
“Put your feet up, princess,” Francis called. “I reckon you need a rest after all that hard work.”
It was strange, really strange, but no matter what a person might have done in the past, even if they’d nearly murdered you on one occasion, it was difficult to remain cold and aloof when the person was making a determined effort to be friendly. Indeed, after the frosty reception she’d had from Nick, it was almost pleasant to have someone fussing around attending to her needs—even if it might only be a pretence, she quickly reminded herself.
“The work’s not hard once you’re used to it,” she said. “I really enjoy it. In fact, I was made chargehand today.”
Meeting Nick had pushed everything else to the back of her mind and she’d actually forgotten.
Francis came in with the drinks. “Chargehand, eh?” He chuckled. “That’s quite a responsibility. Y’know, luv, I’m not going to be in hospital for long having me eye done.
I’ll be well enough for work once me discharge comes through in a few weeks” time. There’ll be no need to keep on with your job once I’m earning a wage again and getting a pension from the army. You can take it easy at home.”
Eileen did her best to remain calm. “I don’t want to take it easy, thank you, Francis,” she said coldly. “I didn’t go to work just for the money. I wanted to do me bit for the war effort and I’ve no intention of giving it up.”
“If that’s the way you want it, princess, it’s fine by me,”
Francis said easily.
Hard luck on you if it weren’t, thought Eileen. “By the way,” she said, “in case you forgot, the Mersey Docks & Harbour Board have been paying your wages ever since you were called up and I haven’t collected a penny.
There’ll be a nice little windfall waiting for when you go back.”
“Perhaps we can buy something for the house?” Francis suggested.
“There’s nothing I need.” The all-embracing “we” made her squirm inside. “How’s Tony been?” she asked.
For the first time, Francis looked slightly peeved. “I’ve scarcely seen him since he came home from school. He popped in a minute about five o’clock to collect something, and I thought he might stay once he saw me. ‘Stead, he went over to Jacob Singerman’s. Jacob brought him back just in time for the raid and we sat under the stairs till the All Clear. Seemed a bit late to me for a lad of his age.’
“I don’t think bedtimes are relevant any more, Francis.
No-one’s had a decent night’s sleep since the bombing started.”
He smiled. It was a dazzling smile, warm and utterly convincing. “I reckon you’re right,” he said. “Though there’s no need for Jacob to look after Tony from now on.
I can take care of me own son.”
“I don’t think so, Francis,” Eileen said as firmly as she could whilst under the influence of the smile. “Let’s leave the arrangement as it is, if you don’t mind. It means you can come and go whenever you please. I don’t want Tony left on his own under any circumstances, not with all these raids.
It’ll only be every other week when I’m on the late shift.”
“Anything you say, princess.”
He was, she thought wryly, like putty in her hands.
“Was the raid a bad one?” she enquired. “You can’t hear much in Dunnings’ basement.”
“George said Great Homer Street caught it really bad, and they got the Carlton Cinema in Moss Lane.”
Eileen shook her head. “I don’t see the point in bombing innocent civilians,” she said. “No-one expected the war would come so close to home.”
Francis had almost wished he was back in the safety of Alexandria during the raid. “Maybe it’ll stop soon. As you say, there’s no point.”
But the air-raids didn’t stop. As September wore on, the raids lasted longer and became more deadly. At first, it was London’s East End that got the brunt of Hitler’s wrath, and the poorest of the poor lost what pitiful few possessions they had, as tenements and entire communities were razed to the ground. But it seemed that no major port, no city, was to be spared the terrible carnage, as the Luftwaffe swept across the dark skies to deliver their nightly load of terror.
Incredibly, people actually became used to the eerie wail of the siren. It soon became a part of their lives. Some made for the public shelter, others for the Anderson shelter in the garden, or their own makeshift affairs—under the table or the stairs. There were those who completely ignored the warnings and stayed in their beds and boasted they could sleep through the worst raid, or carried on with what they were doing, determined not to let Hitler disrupt their lives.
No-one, however, got used to hearing the number of people who’d been killed the night before, or coming across an ominous gap in the street where houses had once been, where people had lived and loved, been happy or sad, and where, perhaps, they’d died.
On Merseyside, everyone was in a state of high dudgeon because the BBC made no mention of the suffering they endured. Their city was gradually being blown to pieces before their very eyes, the streets were blocked by rubble and many of the shops, factories and businesses had been forced to close. Central Station had been put out of action, along with the Mersey Underground.
T. J. Hughes, a major store, was bombed, and the world-famous Argyll Theatre in Birkenhead gutted by fire. The cathedral and many other churches, along with hospitals and old people’s homes, didn’t escape the random terror that dropped from the sky and even criminals weren’t spared when Walton Gaol was hit and I twenty-one prisoners killed, to add to the hundreds of Merseysiders already dead. The docks, the poor docks, the lifeblood of the city, were a particular target and bombed several times a night.
But no-one knew this except themselves; news bulletins merely referred to “attacks on the North West”. Scousers; didn’t begrudge the raids on London being fully reported but they would have liked recognition that it wasn’t the only city being bombed.
“Never mind,” they said stoically. “It can’t get any worse.
Chapter 4
The woman stood on the corner of pearl Street feeling as if I. her feet were glued to the pavement. She’d come so far, I hundreds of miles, yet she couldn’t bring herself to take I the last few steps home.
It was raining, not particularly heavy, but a steady penetrating drizzle that had soaked right through her coat during the walk from Marsh Lane station. She’d no idea what time it was; eight o’clock, perhaps nine, and felt weary, having spent the entire day changing trains, standing for most of the way in packed corridors.
The cul-de-sac looked narrower and shorter than she remembered it and the houses were jammed together as if they’d been forced down by a giant hand into a space far too small. It was something she’d never noticed when she lived there. On the other hand, the railway wall at the end of the street seemed taller than before. She’d never realised it was as high as the roofs and it looked rather oppressive, like the wall of a prison. The girls used to play ball against the wall when she was a child, though she rarely joined in. Sh
e was far too busy practising the piano. On the few occasions she did, everyone had been impressed by her ability to play with three balls, apparently forever, without dropping one.
In those days, steam trains had run beyond the wall, and the belching smoke used to cover the washing with little black smuts. Her father had written some years before to say the line had been electrified.
There was no moon that night. She’d already experienced the blackout, and during the journey had been concerned she wouldn’t be able to find her way in the pitch darkness. After all, it was twenty years since she’d left the street. But she needn’t have worried. An air-raid was in progress and everywhere was lit up as gaily as a carnival.
The long thin fingers of searchlights swept across the black sky, and every now and then flares fell like exploding stars and it was bright as daylight for a while. The flares were usually followed by the sound of an explosion, as a bomb was dropped by one of the planes which were occasionally caught in a probing searchlight. Barrage balloons glinted decoratively, like lights on a Christmas tree.
But the greatest illumination came from a fire, a great roaring fire, which was very close, somewhere on the docks, she guessed. She could hear crackling and was sure it must be a timber yard. The woman felt convinced she could even feel the heat from the dancing, twisting flames which leapt up into the sky, though it was probably her imagination, as perhaps was the pungent smell of burning.
The area where she stood actually looked quite pretty, the houses with their windows crisscrossed with sticky tape to prevent the glass from shattering, the wet roofs and cobbled streets, all sheathed in a glistening pink glow.
Chimneys puffed smoke which made lacy patterns against the fiery sky.
There was the sound of fire engines in the distance and of people shouting, though the area around Pearl Street was relatively quiet. There were voices coming from the public house by which she stood. She tried to remember what it was called and looked up at the sign when the name wouldn’t come to mind—the King’s Arms! Her father used to go there for a drink on Saturday nights. Perhaps he still did.
